Red vs Blue The Meta
by dragon77888
Summary: Did you ever wonder what happened to the Meta between the end of the final episode of Reconstruction, and the beginning of Recreation? How did he come to work with Washington? Where was he hiding all this time? What's it like underneath Meta's helmet?


For the better part of an eventful year, the Freelancer Agent Maine had been entranced by the voices whispering eagerly within his mind. For the better part of a horrible year for Project Freelancer, the Meta had been mercilessly hunting down Freelancer agents one by one, relieving them of their AI fragments and Armor Enchancements after gruesomely murdering his fellow agents. He had grown used to how crowded and restless his mind had become since integrating the personality fragments of the Alpha AI into his armor, almost relishing it to be so. It had started out from his original AI unit; Sigma, Alpha's creativity. She and Maine were a fantastic team, even if their partnership was a tad one-sided at best. Maine was guarded about his mind, outright refusing implantation at first out of fear of a sentient computer program shifting through sections of his memories the giant Freelancer would've prefered to stay repressed. The Director had to use alternative methods to convince Maine to willingly allow for AI implantation, promising the agent a rematch with the infamous Agent Texas, whom he desired revenge on for defeating him humiliatingly upon her first day as a Freelancer. Not an easy feat. Once the enormous Freelancer had set his mind on something, it was nigh impossible to convince him otherwise. It was often whispered between agents that the Director had a silver tongue even the most cunning snake was jelous of, though they wouldn't say it directly to his face.

Once implantation was complete, Sigma had kindly introduced herself, offering her host a wide variety of information, and tatical advice for any future battles he planned on initiating against other AI hosting Freelancers in the near future. She had discovered Maine's hatred towards Tex, and so eagerly informed him of her new AI, Omega, and of any and all stratiges that would work best against them. Though admittedly Maine was intrigued by Sigma's structurely sound plans, and creative thinking, he still was cautious, carefully guarding his inner-most thoughts from his AI's probbing. Sigma was irked by Maine's unnessesary wariness around her, often flying into loud tantrums of pique on how Maine should be more open and acceptant towards her. Maine still refused to allow her into the deeper reaches of his mind, no matter how irritatingly Sigma complained or begged.

The turning point was when Epsilon committed suicide while still integrated with Agent Washington's mind, driving the Freelancer insane. Maine had forlornly watched his crazed friend being dragged away by the Director's men, and being later declared unfit for duty by a professional psychologist that had been called in. It was also the same day Carolina had been pronoUNSCed dead, her body having completely shut down when having two AIs at one time proved more than she could take. She had gone into a coma, and later died when she suffered from both a fatal brain hemorrhage, and a massive heart aneurysm. Maine was stricken by grief. Washington and Carolina, like most Freelancers aside from Texas, were like family to him. His mental barriers on that day had been at their weakest, and Sigma had quickly exploited it. She had feigned sympathy for Carolina's death, and Washington's raging insantiy, she too having lost Epsilon that day. Maine had unwittingly allowed her beyond his mental defences, and that was when Sigma had suggested her idea of tearing down Project Freelancer for their crimes, revealing to him the reason why Epsilon had gone insane. He had been the host of the memories of the Alpha, who had been tortured into fragmenting segments of its mind, which then became the AIs used in the implantation experiments. In order to take down the Director, Maine would need massive amounts of power, which he didn't have. He would need the Alpha, and to get that, he would have to gather the other AIs into a single host to merge the fragments back together, thus recreating the Alpha. Or so Sigma let on.

Maine took the open job as a Recovery Agent, hoping to be able to gather the scattered AIs for himself out from under the Director's ever-watchful gaze. His first mission was a painstaking week later, when he recived a recovery beacon indicating the AI Beta was in danger. He immediantly tracked down the beacon's source, finding the dying Agent Illinois that had been wounded during a firefight a few hours past. Illinois had appeared grateful to see the Recovery symbol on Maine's shoulder, that is until the gargantuan agent hoisted his massive grenade launching Brute Shot, Sigma shouting encouragement all the while, and impaled Illinois with the weapon's short blade. He stole away Beta, implanting the AI within his own helmet. At first, the loyal program had refused to co-opperate with Sigma's scheme, until she told him of their true goal; the Alpha. Beta had readily agreed once told this, and of their brother Epsilon's passing. Together, the two AIs began to gradually overpower Maine's sense of individuality, and his ability to think for himself. They compelled him to track down 2 other AIs from agents North Dakota, and Nevada. He then ran into his old buddy Washington, along with South Dakota. The AIs forcefully convinced him to attack his former friend despite his weak protests. And when he was told by South that she had shot Wash in the back in order to save her own skin, Maine was livid. He wanted to throttle the selfish betrayer, but the sentient computer programs screamed at him to take the Armor Enchancement from Wash's supposedly dead body before the presumed bomb went off and destroyed it, telling him that they could track down South again another day. Maine let South go, abeit grudgingly. He was thrilled to discover that Washington was still alive, apparently having had York's Healing unit on his person, which saved him from death. He took Wash's Armor Enchancement, but left the healing unit, and Washington alone to survive another day once he was convinced there was no sign of the charge South had alledgedly placed on his armor. He then took his leave. This act only caused the AI to become more restless, tearing his mind apart bit by agonizing bit. By the time they got to Valhalla to investigate the crashed pelican, Maine was actively fighting to keep his sanity intact.

When the AIs Gamma and Omega- as well as the original Tex AI- were integrated into his armor, fighting became pointlessly vain. Gamma would decive Maine with lies about Project Freelancer, the Director, and of the Alpha's torture, as well as prodding the sore spot in his hardened heart of Washington's former insanity, and Carolina's death being the Director's fault. Omega would then fill the gigantic rogue agent's mind with nothing but burning rage, so pure and focused upon Project Freelancer that it made Maine unconsciously believe Gamma's lies. Maine's original personality dwindled away into virtual nothingness into the furthest corner of his mind, his newly AI dominated consciousness compelled to excessive violence against Freelancer because of the malicious whispers of the AI; namely the mastermind Sigma orchestrating the entire uprising with encouraging shouts, and false innocence, the deceitfulness of Gamma, and the undefined rage of Omega. He was no longer Agent Maine of Project Freelancer, _**they **_were the vengeful, unified Meta.

When he encountered the no-longer insane Washington for the second and third time, he was merciless in his attacks, driven by insane boughts of rage towards every breathing thing in sight, including his former friends. After being forced to flee for a spell after being wounded, Meta returned to obtain the AI Delta from the blue simulation soldier, whom Washington refered to as 'Caboose'. Unlike the other riled programs, Delta was calm and composed, providing a slight rationality, and order to the chaos within the Meta's mind. Delta insisted on calling him 'Agent Maine'. It brought a small shred of his former personality back, though it was quickly snuffed out by Gamma and Omega.

The Meta tailed Washington, hoping that he would unwittingly lead him to the rest of the AI units, perhaps even the Alpha. It proved to be an awarding act, as Washington unknowingly aided the Meta in breaking into the Freelancer HQ compound, practically opening the door for him to take every single AI in the storage facility. The programs in his head whipped into a frenzy, their goal within their reach. They lured his body inside the compound, following Washington deeper into the facility, ignoring the obvious trick to distract him from the real prize. O'Malley eagerly urged the Meta to kill Washington while he had his attention was focused on what sounded like the Chairman, and the Director's voice eminating from an intercom. The Meta bellowed in rage when Washington activated the facility's interior shields, cutting off his access to the room. He repeatedly slashed the purple barrier with his Brute Shot blade, hissing and growling menacingly all the while as the Director continued talking with Washington, almost completely ignoring the Meta as he tried to break his way into the room. The voice of the leader of Project Freelancer sent the AIs into a chorus of enraged whispers;

"Murderer!"

"He hurt brother Epsilon!"

"He tortured the Alpha!"

"He doesn't care about us!"

"Kill him, Meta!"

"Where is Alpha?"

"Where's **ALPHA**!"

"_**WHERE IS ALPHA**_!"

The only one who didn't join in with the crazed shouting was Delta. He 'stood' within the deeper segments of the Meta's crowded mind, observing the scene from afar. He knew where the Alpha was, even if the others did not. The Alpha was that blue simulation soldier, the one called Church. He knew that, logically, Washington would have guessed it as well by now, and perhaps even informed the AI of his true nature. Of course, Church would probably call it off as a lie, seemingly convinced he was a ghost, and not a computer program. Delta also guessed that Washington didn't want to face the Meta alone unless he had a sound scheme to tip the odds in his favor. He knew what Wash was planning. There was the only one logical way to defeat the warped Agent Maine, and prevent another AI uprising, perhaps even cause the fall of Project Freelancer, the start of it all. And that was to wipe out every single AI unit in the facility. Delta calculated that the building had a failsafe protocall, that would only logically include an Electro Magnetic Pulse that would erase all electronic devices in its range, including the sentient computer programs, originally designed to stop Freelancer AI from falling into enemy hands should the facility be overrun. That was Washington's plan, and a rather good one at that considering his limited options.

"Program, disable interior shields." the Director's voice suddenly rang out, snapping the Meta out of his unthinking trance of berserk anger.

The colour shifting barrier lining the doorway fizzled out of existence, causing the enraged Meta to pause in confusion, and the AI to fall into silence.

"Wha-" Washington stammered, similarly bewildered, a trace of unease lacing into his voice.

"Agent Maine, please kill Agent Washington." the Director ordered in a sickeningly emotionless voice.

Though despising being ordered around by the person they hated the most, the AIs-namely Omega- gleefully obeyed for their own bloodthristy purposes. The Meta swiftly switched weapons, slinging the Brute Shot into the holster on his broad back. His bulky grenade launcher would only end up killing both Washington, _**and**_ himself in the room's confined space, so instead he pulled out his magnum. He skillfully took aim.

"No-" Washington took out his magnum as well, but was a split second too late. The Meta pulled the trigger, shooting his former friend in the chest. Washington gave a strangled gasp, collapsing backwards onto the floor, crimson blood splattering onto the tiles. O'Malley howled with glee, the other AIs baying in bloodlust, urging the Meta forward. Wash slowly retreated back to the computer terminal, crawling determinedly as the Meta advanced upon him, gun gleaming in his hand.

"Kill him, Agent Maine!" the Director said.

The Meta paused for a brief moment, looking up at the intercom, full face visor emotionless, reflecting the artifical lighting of the room.

"_**Where's Alpha**_!" the AIs roared together in their hushed, frenzied whispers.

"The Alpha is not here!" the Director snapped impatiently, "It has been moved far away. Attend to the matter at hand!"

There was a sound of two different hands fighting over the microphone, and a rustle of expensive clothing as the Chairman took hold of the mike.

"What the Director is try to say, is that we can discuss the Alpha later." the Chairman's smooth voice said over the radio link, "What's important is that you prove you can be trusted again. We need trust you before letting you meet the Alpha, wouldn't you agree?"

To any other rational person, this statement would be seen as logical, understandable. But the Meta, and his helmet full of AI were beyond rationality at that point. It only made the Meta's body tremble in the AIs' barely controlled rage.

"You know, Meta." Washington started, voice underlying extensive pain. Meta's head shifted to look at him, eyes boring holes into Wash's visor behind his helmet. "Why wait? Why don't you meet him, right now?"

As David spoke, a holograph flickered into life beside his head. It was that blue soldier with the sniper rifle that had shot the Meta in the leg back at Zanzibar. Church jerked his head toward Meta in mock casuality.

"Hi there."

Seven projections instantly activated, surrounding the front of Meta's helmet in a semi-circle. The AI spoke in excited chatter, reaching out their holographic hands as if attempting to touch the original AI from 2 metres away. The Meta's body fell into a half-aware trance, the AIs manipulating it having the entirety of their attention focused on the Alpha, acting like he was the center of their universe, which he was considering how obsessed they were about him.

"It's him!" Sigma whispered frenziedly, pointing at the original AI unit.

"Alpha!" the others chanted eerily, their projections flickering with awe.

After a few seconds of exchanging words with Washington, the Alpha's projection sprinted towards the Meta, much to the other AIs glee. He leaped inside the gigantic rogue agent's helmet, the lesser fragments retreating back into their host, following him like loyal dogs. The chaos that was normally evident within the crowded mind had vacanted, the AIs having fallen into a hushed silence of awe, basking in the pressence of their savior. Even Omega and Gamma seemed to be at a loss for words, though they exchanged angry glances every now and then while the others flocked to the Alpha's side like obsessed cultists. Church looked around the shredded consciousness of the late-mind of Agent Maine, appearing disgusted with what the AI had done to the formerly sane Freelancer. He felt almost sorry for what he was about to do. Almost. Church took in a deep breath, and then went on a rampage, tearing the Meta's mind futher apart from the inside.

The Meta's body let out an inhuman bellow of pain, body jerking spasmatically. His armor gave off twisting sparks as its systems malfunctioned. His AI added to the chaos as they shouted in protest, their high pitched voices grating agonizingly in the shambles of the Meta's mind. Even Maine's old personality seemed to be awakened by the commotion, and proceeded to be swept up into the maelstrom of Alpha's violent stream of destruction. In the wake of the original AI's frenzy, Maine's old memories were stirred up, causing flashbacks to pass before his crazed eyes.

He looked at Washington who was swiftly typing in codes on the computer terminal, bleeding from the bullet wound Meta had given him. Then the sight was replaced. Maine saw David's grinning face as he patted his large friend on the shoulder after a particularly challenging team training session. It had been them against the Dakota twins. Though they had lost in the end, the two had been content with their near-victory. Those were the good times, when everyone was jokingly competitive, and treated eachother like family. Then Texas showed up, and everything changed. Carolina had become dangerously competitive when Tex was involved. She thought more about the mission at hand than the safety of her squad members, the complete opposite of how she use to be. The team had always come first. But not anymore. Then during the training session against Texas, York lost the use of his left eye. Though it had mostly been Maine's pride that had been at fault, if Tex hadn't initiated the session to begin with, or if the Director hadn't desired to push her to her limits by allowing live rounds on the training floor, none of it would have happened. Maine had gone from a man of few words, to a man of no words after being shot in the throat repeatedly during a mission. Though he had survived, he was unable to speak since. The scar rippling across his maimed larynx still burned when he growled too much. But just as Maine's mind began to slip away from the pain left from Alpha's rampage, the memory faded into the back of his mind, dragging Meta's gaze back to what he was really looking at.

His old friend Washington, whom he had shot with his own hands. Wash pressed one last button on the computer console in triumph. Maine's ears caught something about an EMP before an electrical whine filled the air.

His final sane thought ran through his fractured mind before a blinding white flare of light bathed the room and its occupants in a blanket of crackling magnetic energy.

_**What have I done?**_

Meta's mind suddenly felt...empty. The pain caused by the Alpha's less than cordial visit faded into nothingness, and the chorus of whispering amoungst the other seven AIs fell into eerily instantaneous silence. His mind was crystal clear for the first time in over 6 months. Maine's confused thoughts rang out, almost seeming to echo in the suddenly vacant shambles of his consciousness. Where the AIs had once been housed was now nothing but an empty black void yawning in the center of his brain. He let out a shuddering breath, blinking his eyes free of the blinding light given off by the EMP that had freed him from the AIs' manipulation. Maine was almost ready to cry with joy, his thoughts his own at last for the first time in almost a year. That is, until the hollow vacum created by the AIs' erasing began to eminate a piercing ring as mental feedback started to take effect.

Then, all at once, Maine's world exploded into agonizing pain.

Maine shrieked in unbareable agony, bucking his head wildly like an enraged bull. He raised his shaking hands to claw frantically at his helmet, trying in vain to tear it off. It was tightly sealed to his jawline. He hunched his back, body convulsing spasmatically at the incredibly insufferable pain within his head tore his fleeting sanity to shreds as easily as sissors would a piece of paper. The thrashing Meta threw his head sideways, stumbling backwards into a wall. He then proceeded to slam his back into the cold, reinforced steel wall in a misguided attempt to lessen the torturous pain. When that proved ineffective, Maine turned, backing up, and hurled himself head-first at the wall. The sound of two sheets of metal colliding echoed through the air. Maine's brain felt like it was jarred from its resting place, his teeth and eyes rattling upon impact. The padding inside his helmet inflated to craddle his skull, cushioning it from the brunt force of the blow. The pain did not diminish.

The Meta roared in frustration, the ache in his skull making it feel as if his brain was about to implode. The AIs' residual influence caused the pain to ignite a never ending well of burning rage, the entirety of his fragmented mind exploding with aimless fury. Meta's insane gaze landed on the wounded Washington, whom still stood beside the sparking computer terminal that had emitted the cause of his torment. It was all Washington's fault for activating the EMP. He had sacrificed so much to obtain all the AIs he had gathered; his sanity, his body, his very soul. He even managed to locate, and possess the Alpha, even if it was only for a short amount of time, and the original tore the remainders of his consciousness to shambles. And Washington had just made all that null and void, reasonless. Everything Maine had worked for in the better part of a year, wiped out in one fell swoop. He was all alone for the first time in seven months of the AIs' never ceasing whispers, and he didn't like it one bit.

Meta growled deep in his throat, the anger burning through his veins over-riding the pain he was suffering. He advanced on Washington, taking slow, shaky steps. The ground trembled each time his feet stomped onto the ground. Before Meta could reach him, however, Washington raised his magnum threateningly, its steel glinting in the artifical light, fingering the trigger. The gigantic rogue Freelancer barely paused, roaring animalistically before charging his wounded enemy. Wash cursed explicitly, hesitated for a brief moment, then pulled the trigger. The bullet sped through the air, ripping through the stampeding Meta's shoulder, right through the gap between his chest plate and his shoulder pad. Blood spirted from the wound, splattering onto the walls and floor in lightly spread droplets. His inhuman tolerance to pain already having been pushed to being almost fatal to any other man, Meta halted his charge in favor of stumbling backwards, screaming in agony. His left arm hanging almost entirely useless at his side, dripping scarlet blood, Maine glared at Washington, fury pouring off him in waves. But he paused to cock his head, hearing over a dozen of sets of feet in the distance, along with multiple shouted orders of 'Aprrehend the intruders by any means nessesary', Meta decided it would be best to continue the battle on a later date. Avoiding capture became his top priority.

Meta gave one final hiss towards Washington, before fleeing down the hallway he had entered through. With his massively built frame, he plowed through any and all troopers that blocked his way to freedom, their bodies flying limply through the air like ragdolls caught in a storm. Meta made an attempt to activate the speed Armor Enhancement he had stolen from Illinois, but when he tried, and arc of white hot electricity surged through his veins, making his grit his teeth in pain. Small streams of smoke trailed out his armor's circuitry. The EMP must've fried them. It needed to be repaired extensively before it could be used again. Instead, he decided to rely on his natural running speed to escape the Freelancer HQ compound. Maine's thick body armor deflected bullets that the troopers barely managed to fire from their weapons before they were jerked off their feet, and crushed beneath Meta's heavy boots. He had to be extra cautious about the gaps between his armor plating, curling his body up as he ran in a way that would shield his unprotected sections. The EMP had temporarily knocked down his armor's over-shields, so only his incredibly tough, state of the art biomechanical body armor would protect him from harm. That, and a specially designed second-skin suit underneath the titanium plating that was heat resistance, non-combustable, water-proof, resistant to most forms of brunt force impacts, and was almost impossible to rip with your bare hands, or a ridiculously sharp knife. It was also machine washable. Needless to say, Meta was still well defended against any form of attack, even without his armor enchancements or his over-shields.

Meta had once been one of the Director's favorites until Texas had come along. His dense, heavy weight armor had been specially made just for him. During the program, one of the Director's experiments included what would happen if a Freelancer was given certain genetic enchancements to augment his/her natural abilites using a procedure similar to that of the UNSC's to create Spartans. If said Freelancer survived the experiment, they were to be given armor that was built tougher than a tank. Maine had been the only one of the small group of specifically selected soldiers to live through the procedure, and have no form of bodily disfiguration that would impair his preformance in battle. The chemical augmentation made him twice as strong, and fast, to the point of being beyond inhuman. Maine had always been freakishly large, and strong, able to lift a pick-up truck off the ground without any form of assistance, and possessed an unnatural tolerance to pain, and an incredible amount of endurance and stamina. The experiment had simply made him even more than that. He earned that trade-mark Spartan title of 'Demon'.

But even with the enchancements, he still lacked speed. Maine's armor was simply too bulky for him to move fast enough to battle agile opponents. However, when he did manage to land a hit on an enemy, it was brutal. Against certain foes, one hit from Maine was all it took to either knock them out cold, or in some rare cases, kill them. Once he was placed offically into the Freelancer program, he climbed through the lower ranks swiftly, pushing his way to the top. The only ones who were able to defeat him were swift, agile, and cunning, the best of the best. Maine secured his position as the seventh top Freelancer, occasionally swapping ranks with Washington, the sixth top Freelancer, when he managed to beat him during training simulations. It was a friendly compatition between them. But after the incident that cost York the use of his left eye, Washington had been somewhat angry towards Maine. The large Freelancer often caught the black clad agent glaring at him from across the room while they were being briefed for the mission they were about to be sent on together with Carolina, Wyoming, North Dakota, C.T, and the newly recovered York. On the pelican ride to the drop point, Maine had flusteredly appologised to York about his eye, swallowing the reminents of his pride. Surprised, York had hastily assured Maine that he wasn't angry at the large Freelancer, telling him that he was perfectly fine. When Maine looked back at Washington, he had earned a nod of approval.

As if fate itself wanted to get back at Maine for wounding York's eye, right after Maine had obtained the briefcase objective, he was shot below the heart by an Insurrectionist sniper. His 10 inch thick chest plate saved him from death, slowing the bullets momentum until it barely pierced his flesh. He got up a minute later, charging to Carolina's aid as she battled two elite Insurrectionists. He was outmatched by a lithe female soldier whom was simply too fast for him to keep up with, so when he and Carolina got pressed back to back, they switched opponents. Maine proved to be evenly matched with a muscular sleeveless Insurrectionist, trading blows, and countering attacks, brawling like two military trained gorillas. However, when Carolina impaled her opponent, the female Inssurectionist tossed her sleeveless companion her magnum in a last ditched effort to defeat their enemies. The brute promply used it against Maine, unloading an entire clip into his unprotected larynx. Carolina swiftly came to his aid, knocking the sleeveless soldier off her companion. Angered by his defeat, the pain of his wounds driving him, Maine picked up his discarded Brute Shot, shooting a grenade into the rear bumper of the truck the four were brawling on. The vehicle lost control, crashing into a passing car, launching the four soldiers into the air. Carolina had desperately reached for the briefcase strapped to Maine's back, by was unable to grasp it. The gigantic Freelancer tumbled across the highway at breakneck speeds, his armor's internal padding inflating to cushion the impact, and was subsequently hit by an eighteen wheeler, and sent flying off the interstate. Maine then fell a hundred metres downwards, and crashed full force into the pavement below. He then immediently lost consciousness.

He was later found by his fellow squad members, and transported to an orbiting medical space station. They had to do extensive surgery on his larynx, stitch his throat wounds shut, clear all the clotted blood and flesh clogging his airway, remove every last magnum round from his body, and to give him three blood transfusions in order to save his life. Maine was in a deep, almost coma- like state of unconsciousness for over two weeks before he finally woke up. And though he recovered faster than the doctors anticipated, he was never able to talk again.

Meta shook off his digressing thoughts as he gradually made his way to the outer reigons of the Freelancer compound, growling softly to himself. A trooper pulled off a lucky shot, the bullet from his standered issue battle rifle grazing the massive rogue Freelancer's unprotected side. It didn't bleed, but it stung horrendously. Meta whipped his head around to glare at the soldier. He unslung his bulky grenade launcher from its holster on his broadly muscled back, clutching it between his hands. Meta unloaded an entire clip of grenades into the soldier's body, blowing it sky high. It flew several hundred feet into the air, only to come crashing back down moments later with a sickening splat, and the crunch of pulverized bone. The soldiers who valued their lives gave him a wide berth after that.

Legs pumping, Meta cleared the Freelancer HQ boarder, taking off in a specific direction. He instinctually craned his neck to steal a glance over his shoulder, knowing the almost completely flat landscape would make him an ideal target for a sniper. There were distant silhouettes of troopers moving in around back at the compound, but they ignored him, seeming to swarm like angry ants towards the storage facility. Alarms were going off, filling the air with a continuous high pitched whine. Meta cracked a crazed grin. No doubt the soldiers had already apprehended the injured Washington, who would probably be arrested along with the Director and the Chairman, if the broadcasts he had intercepted during his hunt for AI were to be believed. Apparently the Councilman wasn't happy with the Director, nor his accomplise the Chairman for that matter. Though his AI had been wiped out, his goal had finally been attained. Project Freelancer was falling, as were its leaders, and soon nothing would be remaining from it but the data left over from the wide variety of experiments that had taken place during its horrific time on the world.

But though the leader of the project and his associate had fallen, there were still reminents of the orginization scattered all over the globe. They needed to be destroyed in order to totally and utterly tear down Project Freelancer for good, and Meta was more than willing to continue his mission once he recovered from his injuries, and repaired his damaged armor. Everything the Director had ever built for the Freelancer program deserved to be burned to the ground, and Meta was going to be the one holding the metaphorical match. The project had given him everything he had, having no family after a tragic accident after he had been drafted by the UNSC to fight the Covenant. When the Director had plucked him from his dingy home after he was ejected from the military after being deemed a threat to his fellow squad members, he had provided Maine a new family. Carolina, Wyoming, York, Washington, C.T, the Dakota twins, they had become that family. But because of the Directors experiments with artifical intelliegence, it all fell apart. The Director had given him a new chance at life, and then just as quickly ripped it away from him after the introduction of Agent Texas into the Freelancer program. She and the Directors cruelty had taken everything away from him; his family, his friends, his home, his sanity, everything he had ever strived for. Gone. All because of him, and Texas. It was only fair for Meta to repay them in kind.

Meta traversed over the flat landscape for three days, pausing only to rest, hunt for food, and sleep. He soon came upon the simulation base of Zanzibar, where he had already eliminated the simulation soldiers posted there when he had been in search of a means to replenish his suits energy supplies. It was an ideal choice for a temporary hideout, easily defended, isolated from the rest of the world, and had a large stockpile of supplies, and ways to fix his damaged equipment. It was also off the grid, having a self-sustaining energy supply. He could augment his energy reserves, reboot his armor's systems, and recharge his over shields, all without alerting anyone of the power fluctuations. Meta would lay low for an unspecified amount of time, and then continue his quest to utterly destroy any and all reminents of Project Freelancer, perhaps even pay the dear Director a less than cordial visit in jail.

Meta skitted down the edge of the giant ridge surrounding the base, leaning slightly backwards to maintain his balance. His feet hit the ground, grunting softly from the impact. His feet ached from running so much in his heavy armor, as did the rest of his bulging muscles. Meta tapped the side of his helmet, bringing up his H.U.D to scan the area for movement or heat signatures. The display was filled with static, still letting off residual sparks from trace effects of the EMP. His armor system let out a piercing whine which made his ears want to bleed. So Meta used the traditional means of fixing broken electronics; he slapped his helmet with a gigantic hand. The static cleared almost immediently as a screen popped up that said 'Rebooting armor systems, please wait'. Meta hissed in irritation, tapping his foot impatiently at the delay. He pressed himself against the main buildings outer wall, gazing about for any visual sign of possible enemies. A minute crawled by before his HUD flickered into life, data orginizing itself across the inside of his EVA visor. Meta's eyes swiftly scanned the information as his helmet automatically prioritized the incoming data.

His readout indicated that all the more advanced functions were offline since the EMP had fried the circuitry, so he had to rely on lowtech means to scan the area. Meta activated a customized version of sonar imagery, which bathed the area in a five hundred yard radius in a combination of a high pitch frequencey, and electrical pulses. These waves then returned to their point of origin with coded data, which was then converted into a 3D visual by his helmet. It was only able to get the general outline of the area it scanned, mostly picking up on movement, and electricity hotspots. It was usually an unreliable means to track the enemy, and so was quickly scapped by the military in favor of advanced motion trackers, and satellite, thermal, and X-ray imagery. Meta had discovered that such technology was easily jammed, disabled, hacked, or distorted by the enemy, so had also requested customized lowtech scanners to be built into his locating systems. They were so uncommon these days, that they were almost impossible to turn against their user, or have the enemy feed them misinformation to trick you during a mission.

Basically, his readouts indicated that the base, and the surrounding compound were as vacant of life as he had left it, perhaps even moreso.

Meta made his way inside the main building, scrounging up any tech he could use to repair his armor, and supplies to treat his wounds. He was lucky, able to find a small plasma torch, wire tongs, a hammer, seven compatable replacement parts from the armor of dead simulation soldiers to repair his damaged systems, some disinfectant, and a roll of linen gauze. Meta efficently stripped himself of his heavy body armor, peeling off his torn second skin suit. He looked at the fullbody skin suit, and then tossed it aside. It couldn't be saved. He would simply have to scavange for a replacement later. He just hoped there was one that would fit someone his size.

It was only when he had removed the last piece of his armor did he realize just how much he reaked of sweat, and blood. He hadn't taken off all his armor in weeks, so the stench had plenty of time to accumulate. Meta's sensitive nose wrinkled in disgust, thoughts immediently wanding into the appealing prospect of bathing. During his time with the AIs, they had allowed him no time for pleasantries like baths, or relaxing his body for more than an hour at a time. He had learned to sleep on command, taking quick power naps between tracking Freelancer agents, and avoiding UNSC capture. The AIs never let him get the amount of rest he needed to think straight, and only permitted him to get the nessesary daily requirement of food and water for his body to opperate to its full potental. Anything they deemed a waste of time was immediently scrapped. Now, in a way...he was free.

Meta shook his head roughly, and only then realized he still had his helmet on. He reached a hand up to touch it gingerly, like he was afraid it would burn his flesh from his bones. He hadn't removed his helmet completely in almost a year. He would simply collapse the visor to eat or drink, and then flick it back into place, and move on. Meta's fingers traced the pressurized air seals, locked in an internal debate of whether or not to remove his EVA helmet. Eventually, a deep rooted urge to discard the emotionless mask overruled his instinctual need to protect his face from view. He tore off the seals, which released with a pneumatic hiss of escaped gasses. Meta tugged the helmet free from his jawline, letting it fall to the floor, not concerned in the least about the possibility of it breaking from the impact.

Meta blinked his eyes, adapting his vision to the bright artifically lit room he stood in. His hands gently patted his bare face, almost as if trying to discern whether it was real or not. He felt his facial features, compiling a mental image of himself since there was no reflective surface in his immediate reach. His fingers lingered briefly on the scar tissue rippling across his throat from the wounds that cost him his ability to speak beyond growls and hisses. After he was done exploring to his exposed face, he began to treat his wounds. Using a pair of pre-sanitized wire tongs, he removed the bullet fired by Wash from his shoulder, gritting his teeth ever so slightly. He then disinfected it. Just for good measure, he heated up the combat knife he kept sheathed to his thigh with the plasma torch, and hesitantly slapped the flat of the blade against the wound. Meta howled in pain, then silenced himself, grinding his teeth together as he gently moved the scalding knife across the entirety of the injury, making sure to cauterize every square inch of it. After an agonizing second that felt like an eternity, he removed the knife, and wrapped his shoulder in linen cloth.

Once he was sure there weren't any other wounds that required treatment, he moved on to his armor. He carefully removed any bullets lodged in the titanium plating, tossing the rounds aside like refuse. He ignited the plasma torch, bringing it close to the dented armor segments. Once the metal was heated, he hammered it back into shape. This went on for hours, Meta using his steady hands to mend his armor, and to repair what circuitry from his electrical systems he could, and replace what he couldn't with spare parts from the armor of dead simulation troopers that were compatable with his Freelancer tech. After he was done with repairs, he swiftly nodded off, pressing his back against a wall, and closing his eyes.

He woke up a few hours later, stretching his limbs to ease their stiffness. Once he consumed a MRE, and some filtered water, he set to work on recharging his over shields, setting up a wireless connection between his armor's systems and the massive generators' unisensors. His suit greedily drank up the electricity fast enough to cause the lights to flicker. Once it was fully charged and opperational, he attempted to test his recently repaired armor enhancements. They worked, but only for a short time, and not very well while they did. They also couldn't be activated at the same time, or while another enchancement was running. Meta realized that this was due to his lack of AI units to run their respective armor enhancement simultaneously. He couldn't even turn on his cameleon armor system, which used the least amount of energy by far. When he tried, it malfunctioned, and started changing colours so fast, it would have killed any seizure prone person who looked upon it. It was like a neon sign, except strapped to his body, the way it kept flashing colours. At one point, it got stuck on the colour hot pink for over an hour before he was able to fix it. The ridiculousness of the entire situation made him scream in frustration. After that, he simply stared at his armor pieces, his gaze metaphorically boring holes into the titanium plating.

Over the course of a few weeks, he tried to develop a method to activate and use his armor enchancements without an AI unit, having little to no success. While he was tossing out the dead bodies of the simulation troopers from the building like sacks of refuse, because they began to stink up the entire complex, something strange happened; his helmet started to ring. Meta immediently frozen, turning slowly towards the discarded head gear in question. The gigantic rogue Freelancer walked up to the EVA 'fishbowl' helmet with cautious, thundering steps. He picked it up with his enormous hands, placing it over his head, sealing it into place on his jawline. Meta activated his HUD, which indicated that someone, somewhere, was attempting to set up a visual radio chat. His systems security protocall automatically denied the requestor's access to his com line, but a box inquired '**Do you wish to acknowledge :**_**USER UNKNOWN'S**_**: radio transmission, and accept their call?'**

Meta hesitated, then accepted the call against his better judgement. His visor screen darkened as the visual transmission activated. Meta didn't see anything at first, simply shadows, and a vague silhouette.

"Maine, it's me." a familar voice eminated from his helmet's interior speakers.

Reconizing the voice's owner immediently, Meta roared in outrage into his intercom so loud, it sent a high pitched whine over the link. He heard a muffled curse on the other end of the line.

"Dammit, not so loud!" Washington hissed angrily as his face came into view, "You'll blow out my eardrums, you idiot!"

Maine made a clicking sound at the back of his throat in irritation, clearly indicating he didn't appreciate Washington's tone, threatening to end the call.

"If you hang up, I'll just call you again. No matter how long it takes for you to finally answer the phone again, I'll keep calling until you do. Every. Single. Minute. Do you want that?"

Meta growled deeply, communicating his emence hate of Washington, and his displeasure on him calling up the giant soldier on the phone like it was no big deal, and then threatening him with constant calling like a devil incarnate telemarketer until he picks up again should he terminate the connection. Then a thought crossed his twisted mind, and a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat spread across his face. Meta inquired evily in the language he developed after losing his ability to speak.

David's jaw clenched tightly, having learned to understand Meta's growls and hisses over the years of working with him. He angrily retorted;

"No, I haven't become anyone's bitch yet, Maine, and I don't plan on it happening." His eyes narrowed as he asked, "How'd you know I got sent to jail?"

Meta snorted, that alone able to convey his thoughts towards Washington's obvious question.

"Right, stupid question." Washington said in answer to himself, "Look, Maine. I have a reason for calling you."

The gigantic rogue Freelancer hissed through his grinning teeth.

"Your sarcasm is unparalleled, Maine." David deadpanned, straight faced, "I need to talk to you about a deal I have in mind."

Meta merely grunted, uninterested in anything Washington had to offer him.

"I need your help with something," Wash explained, "And in return, I have something you might be interested in."

The insane, yet rational soldier tutted skeptically, cocking a thin eyebrow.

"If you help me, I can get you an AI unit."

Maine's skepticism faultered, his mind seeming to freeze, then rewind, and replay those words over and over again. With an AI, he could finally be able to activate his armor enhancements. He would have the power to tear the reminents of Project Freelancer asunder without any worries in the world. But this was Washington, the one who had originally wiped out the AI Meta had gathered for the better part of a year. He was the reason he couldn't opperate his equipment. He hissed animalistically, his uncontrollable urge to throttle Washington should he be lying clearly underlying his tone.

"I see I have your attention now." Washington observed, chosing to ignore the threat, "As you know, I was thrown in jail after the fall of Project Freelancer. In order for the Councilman to allow my freedom, and a clean slate, I need to retrieve the one item that escaped the EMP, and eluded his grasp; Epsilon. If you help me get it away from those simulation troopers that helped me before, the Councilman will permit you to have one of the remaining AIs left over from the Freelancer program that had been stored in another facility during the uprising."

Meta mulled the deal over in his head, before clicking his tongue questioningly.

"After the fall of the Director, the UNSC let the troopers use Valhalla as their new battleground for their fake red vs blue war." Washington said, "Caboose, the blue idiot, called me on the phone earlier today. He's the one who has Epsilon."

Maine gowled, easily translated into 'why me?'.

"You weren't exactly the first person I had in mind." Wash retorted, "Definately not the person I wanted to call on the phone to ask for help. But you're the only one who can help me right now, and more easily negotiated with than some other former Freelancers in hiding I could mention."

The larger behemoth snorted mockingly, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, I can handle simulation soldiers no problem." David snapped, "I just don't want to die because I underestimated these specific troopers. They're the ones who managed to beat Omega, and out match Gamma when he took control of a heavy armored tank, not to mention they killed Wyoming by beating him at his own game. I also have reason to believe they defeated, and killed Tex twice...not sure how, but they did."

David's rant was rewarded with an unimpressed grunt from Maine.

"Do we have a deal, or what?" Washington demanded sharply, patience having reached its end.

There was a moment of thoughful silence from Meta, before an accepting click of his throat echoed down the comlink.

"Good. Meet me at Valhalla ASAP. I'll see you there." With that said, the connection was severed.

A Cheshire Cat grin cracked across Meta's crazed face. He would play ball for now, behave nicely while Wash played his little games with the simulation troopers. He would follow orders like a good solider, but when the moment was ripe, Washington would forever regret the day he crossed the Meta. Once Epsilon was in their grasp, Wash would find himself with a Brute Shot short blade wedged between his shoulder blades, and his life blood spilling out from his chest, turning their surroundings crimson. He would take the memory unit for himself, and then Freelancer would be destroyed for good for what they did to him, and all the others the Director harmed with his selfish motives.

He was no longer **Agent Maine **of the Freelancer program.

_**He was the insane, vengeful Meta. The destroyer of Project Freelancer.**_


End file.
